GREEN
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1894 10.64 KB 137
1894 10.64 KB 137
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Author: Dangerous Amoeba
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Pastebin URL: QARVdJbA.html
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Date: Aug 13th, 2014
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>A peaceful late evening stroll through Parks.
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>Your way of getting away from it all, when the loneliness of kids moving out and husband passing away sets in or the stress of running a book printing company with little help.
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>The cool evening air is nothing your favorite fall jacket couldn’t handle.
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>Ponies on the trail beginning their trek home, most people will be indoors soon.
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>Not you, you like to think when no one is around. The fresh air and gorgeous scenery help.
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>Grey clouds forming above, rain. You don’t mind, the falling and splashing of water was a another thing you enjoyed about nature.
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>Talking a left at a fork towards a ravine like area of the park, the wind is picking up and starting to rustle leaves.
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>Continuing your trot at a relatively slow pace, the thought of Crescent and you walking side-by-side admiring nature.
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>The loneliness no matter how far you push it always creeps up on you.
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>Small things like sitting alone at the dining table, the cold side of the mattress, no arguing about stupid things.
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>Thoughts interrupted by drops of water hitting your back and head.
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>You smile and pull your hood over your head, the sound of rain filling your ear, and you picked up your pace.
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>Out of the corner of your eye, something out of place catches your attention.
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>At the edge of the riverbank where the trail end, is a small brown box.
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”Strange.”
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>You mutter, in curiosity.
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>Cautiously trotting towards the cardboard, you see some movement.
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>A filly maybe? Alternatively, some animal?
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>If it is an animal, it might be dangerous; maybe you should leave it alone.
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>Some more shaking causes your curiosity to get the better of you.
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>Slowly inching closer and closer to the box.
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>Smaller details began to emerge; the box has “fragile” and other such caution signs on it.
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>Stopping to assess the box. You are viewing the rear part or “bottom” if the box placed ready to pack into.
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>Blocky bold letters written diagonally on its side read: “FLIM FLAM BROTHERS INC”
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>Judging by those letters it’s an old box, the Film Flam brothers are serving their 3rd year in a 5 year sentence for fraud.
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>Beginning a slow walk over, cautiously approaching the potentially dangerous creature.
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>Horn lit, ready to fight despite your lack in most aggressive spells.
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>The box is at the corner of an intersection of sorts.
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>The current cracked tile trail ends, and a cleared plants make a dirt trial that perpendicularly intersect this trail.
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>The opening is facing the dirt trail, which runs parallel to a small river.
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>You must have taken a wrong turn, because you don’t remember seeing a dirt trail like this next to the river yesterday.
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>Ready to pounce on the box only less than a meter away now.
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>The cold is unbearable, your leaking “home” doesn’t offer help much either.
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>Some rustling as you try to hug yourself to retain heat.
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>The tattered remains of a blanket, Is your only companion.
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>On top of that and the monsoon atop you, the past week was slow, not many ponies visited you, at least your regulars showed, 1 even gave you twice the bits.
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>You look inside the saddlebag that always saddens you by bringing good memories.
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>A little filly, with a saddlebag too big for her, filled with books and pencils, the most eager student in class.
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>Now living in a box, doing degrading sexual favors for scraps of food.
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>Pulling out a relatively well-preserved bit-bag, you count the dull brass coins.
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>37 bits remaining, enough to get a dozen apples, and maybe a coffee.
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>You cut back on eating almost to starvation, on slow weeks like this.
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>At the snap of a twig, your head turns to face the approximate origin of the sound.
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>Sitting alone with dead silence as taught you to pay attention to sounds, something as subtle as the sound of a twig snapping can give indication of danger.
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>This was a quick snap, probably from a pony.
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>Placing your bit-bag back into your saddlebag, then moving the saddlebag to under your head to act as a pillow
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>You cover your shivering body with the tattered cloth that you pass off for a blanket.
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>On the plus side, the rain and lack of customers meant you are cleaner than usual.
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>Normally, a quick dip in the ravine cleans you just as well.
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>A hoof steps near you, raising an ear to the origin of the sound.
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>Light steps, probably a upper-class mare. They tend to have a light trot, which would be elegant if it weren’t so pretentious.
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>While a mare wouldn’t be that alarming, a rich mare is. They like to pay you to be their stress release doll for an hour.
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>And not simple licking or touching, they are too above fucking you, but so low, they beat you.
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>Alternatively, they ridicule you, which is better for you, but still hurts.
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>Siting up inside your cardboard prison, ready for either an abusive customer or abusive asshole.
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>the steps getting closer to until they are right behind you.
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>Directly behind the box now, kind of scared honestly.
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>You walk around slowly, trying not to make much noise.
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>Standing next to the box, Deep breath. Breathe in, and out.
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>Quickly turning your body and poke your head at the opening of the box.
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>A quick blink of fear for what awaited later, your eyes absorb a dirty brown mare huddled inside the box.
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>Dirt is stuck in her mane, and her fur is darker brown in some areas than others are.
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>Sad blue eyes, with drooping bags under them.
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>She looked shocked at your sudden appearance, and you detected a hint of fear in the way she held one hoof in front of her none obstructing.
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>She let her hoof down, and tried to clear her throat, only for a coughing fit to stop her.
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>”Hello miss, a-are y-*cough*-you here for my services?”
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“Why are you in a box? And what exactly are your services?”
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>She looks at you, as if surprised. Then points to a cardboard sign next her.
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>’Hoof jobs 5 bits, Fulltime 10 bits, Anything 20 bits’.
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>However inappropriate, the thought that crossed your mind that she didn’t even put blowjobs on her service list.
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>A prostitute, and clearly an amateur. Not that you were a stranger to prostitution, strange cutie marks do exist.
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>But hookers usually have a brothel, or pimp they are under.
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>Looking back at the mare, sunken eyes, bones showing through flesh and fur. She was clearly homeless.
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>Her eyes followed yours, maybe trying to read you.
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“Are you hungry?”
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>Remembering the lettuce and tomato sandwich, in your saddlebag in case you got hungry.
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>The mare looks at the floor of her cardboard companion. You magic out the sandwich from the saddlebag.
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“Here you go. It has a lot of ranch sauce, hope you don’t mind.”
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>She looks at the sandwich, then at me as if I saved her life, and then proceeded to take a large bite out of it.
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>Through chewing teeth, she coughs a:
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>”Thank you.”
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“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
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>She blushes. You watch her eat, can’t be older than Twilight,
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“So, who are you, and where are you from?”
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>She takes the last bite of her sandwich, swallows and looks up at you scared.
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>”My name is M-Morning Glory, I’m from Manhattan.”
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>She was clearly keeping the finer details from you, not that it didn’t make sense, you are a stranger after all.
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“So is this your...um-heh...home?”
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>After saying that, you felt like a jerk.
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>A mare. She walked around your box, stuck her head in and gave you a sandwich.
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>Light grey, face. With blue eyes, looking down on you.
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>Her posture and gaze imply sympathy, not pity.
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>”So, who are you, and where are you from?”
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>Her voice is motherly and loving, others have been nice to you, but always their attitude implied some form of superiority, this mare talked as if she had just found a filly. Despite she knowing of your “profession”.
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“My name is M-Morning Glory, I’m from Manhattan.”
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>Each word hurt, not physically, a pain that subsides eventually. No, those words hurt deeper than that, a reminder of your past.
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>Someone once told you ‘To feel great about the good things in life, you need some of the bad’.
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>That may be true, but what if your whole future was bleak and dead?
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>If only you had become a lumberjack like dad, if only you had been hired by the university, if only you had gotten your cutie mark.
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>Dad was killed after some mercenaries where paid to clear leaf lake, your town.
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>Maybe for the better, who want to see his only daughter, the same he worked hard to make sure she didn’t have to, the one he worried when she didn’t come home after dark.
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>In some backwoods park, starving and huddling in a box.
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>“So is this your...um-heh...home?”
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>You snap back to reality. The mare was blushing, clearly feeling bad about the question she asked.
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>Don’t blame her; this is your only shelter, although with the past 3 days of rain, you need a new one.
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“I had a bigger box a weak ago.”
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>Trying to lighten the mood, but it made you feel worst. As if that was another thing taken away.
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>The mare looks at your price board. Bet the question she is going to ask is:
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>”So does ‘anything’ mean anything?”
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>Knew it, everyone asks that at first. Then they proceed to introduce you to a new fetish, or use you as a stress toy.
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“Yes, anything.”
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>Strange, instead of a ‘prepare your body’ looks, she instead looks at you with concern.
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>”Isn’t that dangerous? Not limiting people?”
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>It’s like a mother scolding a daughter. This kind of love you have not had since your last dinner with dad.
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“I do ma’am, but I need to eat.”
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>Turning your head ashamed at how low your life had fallen, two brass coins gently laid in front of the cardboard in front of you.
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>2 20 bit coins, enough for another dozen apples, and a loaf of bread.
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>You look up at the mare who gave you the blessing, remembering that nothing in this world is free.
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>”Come with me.”
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>Not questioning a paying customer, you put the bits into your bit bag.
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>Slowly crawl out of the box, then grab your saddlebag and put it on your back. Grabbing the cloth piece you call blanket, you place it into the bag.
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>You stand for a second, your legs cracked; it felt good to stretch them out.
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>The light rain, didn’t feel so bad right now.
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>A few more stretches and your attention turned to the mare. Her details where more visible now.
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>Her flat light-purple hair had a white stripe and covered a bit of her left eye.
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>She looked at you, studying you. Not the first time you have seen this type of gaze, but not very often with your current condition.
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>Wonder what she wants.
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by rmp
by rmp
by rmp